Snorta

My youngest daughter's favorite game is called "Snorta".  This is one of my favorite things about her.  She loves Snorta and she always picks it when it's her turn to choose.  I love this so much about her because Snorta is the game that she ALWAYS loses and she loses big time.  But the whole time she's being shut-down by her family, she's smiling and laughing and enjoying every minute. 

Years ago, when we started playing games as a family, to assuage the tender feelings of my tots that lost, I coined the platitude "Whomever has the most fun, wins."  If you look at it that way, she has never lost a game.

Four Haircuts

This handsome kid is my little brother. This picture was taken at the St. Peters Ward picnic in 1988. You will notice that he is sporting the typical teenage "why are you taking my picture"look. He was such a cutie, even when he glowered.

He is also sporting the typical skater haircut of the 80's.  He spent A LOT of time either on a skateboard, or adjusting/building/manipulating a skateboard...and he was really good at it.  And as his big sister, my contribution to this illustrious skating career was relatively small and mainly cosmetic. I cut his hair. 

I'm not sure whose idea this was.  Did he ask me? Or did I make the suggestion?  I don't know. All I know is that I was 18 years old, had never cut anyones hair in my life, and I probably used fiskars. But I gave him the classic skater look he wanted at the time and had a lot of fun doing it!

That lead to me cutting his friends hair too.  Once again, fun on my part, but apparently, horrific as far as his mother was concerned. Sorry Mrs. Delano.
This is where the whole haircutting thing should have stopped.  But I'm afraid that by this time, we had created a monster.  With fiskars in hand and WAY too much adolescent confidance, I decided I was a beautician.  Obviously the whole beauty school thing was optional and just not for me.   

This is where Mr. Beautiful comes in (insert cringe.)

I'm talking about Mr. Everything On My Shallow List; good-looking, great at volleyball, returned missionary, sings and plays keyboard flawlessly, likes my favorite bands, perfectly whitty and drives the coolest car.  Dreamy.

Oh yeah, and he had a skater haircut, which is probably why when he asked at volleyball one night where a good barber was, my best friend who knew I liked him piped up: "Rosie cuts hair!" 

Oh my gosh.  I suddenly had a "date" with this guy...to cut his hair.  Fortunately, for everyone involved, he got to my house at the appointed time, but before I did.  Just enough time for my mom to probably fall over laughing when he announced why he's there and to warn him to stay away from me and scissors.  When I got there he graciously announced he'd rather go to a movie than get a haircut (my mom probably gave him money for the show AND for a real haircut somewhere else).  We watched Beaches and he held my hand when I cried.

Eventually I would find myself at BYU, living off campus without a car.  Hmmm....how would I get to the grocery store?  I know, I could trade haircuts for rides!  Enter poor unsuspecting victim number four.  This time however, there is no mom to save him.  It's just me, him and my dull fiskars. 

I don't know, I really don't know.  It had to be at least an hour, maybe more, of methodical/perplexed snips here and there. He did not wear a skater cut (pretty much a bowl cut).  He had one of those real haircuts that required tens upon thousands of little hairs all needing to line up and look...normal.  I was lost and I think he knew it, for as soon as my phone rang and I put down the scissors to get it, he practically jumped up out of the chair, made up some excuse and ran out the door.  Poor guy.

I don't cut hair anymore.

Happy Valentines Day to me...because of you.

This morning I emerged from our basement after a three and a half hour organizing binge that started out as a quick trip downstairs to put something away, ONE something, mind you...just one.  I knew time was passing and that thirty seconds had turned into thirty minutes and then to an hour, but I had no idea it was almost lunch time (good thing I slept in my clothes last night...long story).   My morning had slowly escaped from me, or rather, been kidnapped from me by my penchant for organization; but I couldn't stop myself.  I am that way.  So much so, that  when our new Bishop asked my family what my talents were, they said organizing.  I was slightly disappointed.  I was hoping for writing or designing, but they said organizing.  That is a good talent, it really is, but it's hard to hear that what you consider of yourself to be a slight mental imbalance, is largely known by others to be your primary talent.  "Hey...I'm crazy and I'm really good at it!"

Mark has prodded me to turn my "talent" into a profit by becoming a professional organizer.  But I don't think that would work.  The main driving force behind my "gift" is the ability to throw stuff away.  It tends to make people angry when you try to throw out what looks to you like garbage, only to find out, it's actually not garbage, it's their junk. Junk isn't garbage. People like junk.  They carry it around for YEARS and hurt people who try to mess with it.

But as for me and my house...less is more and always will be. Except for stuffed animals. They are stronger than me and I have discovered that resistance is futile.  I have discovered this the hard way.  Call me crazy, but for every stuffed animal I've ever thrown away, I swear six more have come back to replace it.  Two by two these cuddly culprits will someday march onto a giant stuffed ark, and float away to a plush paradise and I will be left behind with nothing to loathe but the mosquitos and politicians.  This is not only my fate, but I believe the only way I'll EVER get rid of them.
Now it is two o'clock and I have not done my budget like I was supposed to do today.  But my basement is cleaner and my blog is longer.  Truly there's just one thing left to do...find out what time Ellen is on.